Stuffed as it is with hit pop songs spanning several decades, “Sing” is sure to get smaller folks in the room out of their seats for spontaneous singalongs and shimmies. The adults rounding them up and rationing their popcorn? They’ll recognize stage fright when it comes to the movie singing its own tune.

Still, “Sing” offers the most elegantly animated effort yet from Illumination Entertainment (aka the House That Minions Built) – not only for its visual sophistication but the quasi-European and classic-Hollywood influences at play. Yes, “Sing” is basically “Zootopia’s Got Talent,” but the comic absurdity that turns a planned $1,000 prize into a purse of $100,000 mashes up Gilliam and Jeunet, and a moment involving a group of color-changing squids playfully evokes MGM splendor of old.

In its first act anyway, this shuffle-play jukebox musical written and directed by Garth Jennings (an anomaly to by-creative-committee standards of most animated films), settles into a solid, modest and colorful depiction of characters struggling to find their voice in life and in song. (Jennings also gives voice to Karen, an elderly iguana with a glass eye whose each breath seems to be her last.)

But then a dreaded farty-boom-boom frenzy kicks in, not quite dragging “Sing” to a lowest common denominator but pulling it perilously close, and some of those auxiliary character designs suspiciously, and subversively, make it feel like Illumination’s “The Secret Life of Pets 1.5.” (If those cats look familiar, you’re not wrong, and keep an eye on the masks those bank-robbing gorillas are wearing.)

The setup is simple but effective: An entrepreneurial koala named Buster Moon (voiced by Matthew McConaughey) has run his once successful theater aground. Borderline destitute, Buster puts together a talent show in hopes of recruiting his next big star.

When the aforementioned prize-money error draws almost the whole town to audition, Buster runs with the ruse – hoping he can somehow raise the money in time through a deal with Nana Noodleman (Jennifer Saunders), the grand dame sheep whose singing inspired Buster to pursue showbiz.

Meena (Tori Kelly), whose big voice is outdone only by her big nerves; and

Johnny (Taron Egerton, the “Kingsman” hunk who showcases unexpectedly powerful pipes), a Cockney-accented gorilla whose father wants him to pump the brakes on singing and hit the gas as the getaway driver for his band of thieves.

For what it’s worth, you also get the surreal sensation of hearing McConaughey sing “Call Me Maybe.”

Obviously, the more characters they cram in, the more famous songs they can sing. But it too often stalls the movie; why have two wallflowers trying to shed their shyness when one would suffice? Only Johnny and Ash’s stories resonate – the latter an indictment against stripping artistic idiosyncrasies to fit popular image, the former a familial culture clash a la “Billy Elliott” with a reconciliation moment that cleverly tips its hat to “King Kong.” (The movie also needs more original numbers like “Set It All Free,” Ash’s fist-pumping power-pop triumph.)

Mike, meanwhile, exists solely to inject chase-antic shenanigans as he runs afoul of Russian-gangster bears. (Nice rendition of “My Way,” though, courtesy of MacFarlane’s silky songbook-standard singing.) Combined with an absurdly intense action sequence that plays like “Poseidon” plopped in the middle of a children’s film, this manic pushiness will pacify antsy preschoolers but also pads “Sing” to nearly two hours. When most animated films come out of the bridge into a final chorus, “Sing” vamps and vamps.

In its best moments, “Sing” is a family-pleasing paean to the pageantry of performance. But you’ll wish it could simply sit still a little longer on such joyous moments of song – more Baz and less spaz.

When I was in high school, the big midnight-show movie was “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” a poorly made low-budget horror-movie spoof, which also happened to be a musical, and warranted (sometimes unwelcome) audience participation. By the mid-1980s, the “Rocky Horror” fad was beginning to fade when Frank Oz (of Muppet fame) churned out a well-made, larger-budget horror-movie spoof, which also happened to be a musical. I was certain “Little Shop of Horrors” would be the next big midnight-show classic.

Guess what? I was wrong. While “Little Shop of Horrors” never really caught on with the midnight crowd, it was a mainstream hit, and it’s still an absolute joy to watch. Based on the 1982 Broadway musical (which, in itself, was based on Roger Corman’s low-budget non-musical 1960 film), “Little Shop” concerns a nerdy young man named Seymour, who works at Mushnik’s Flower Shop. His co-worker and love interest, Audrey, likes Seymour platonically, but her boyfriend, Orin, is the strangest, most macabre dentist you’ve ever seen.

In an effort to drum up business, Seymour brings an exotic plant from his apartment to the store, and even names it Audrey II, only to discover this plant survives solely on human blood. Naturally, Audrey II becomes the talk of the town, and Mushnik’s business booms. Faced with losing Audrey II to hunger (and therefore, all the free publicity for the store), Seymour feeds the dentist to the plant! And here you have the twisted yet delightful tenor of “Little Shop of Horrors.”

Affable Rick Moranis plays the wistful Seymour, while Ellen Greene (from the Broadway production) shines as Audrey. Steve Martin has a great time as the dentist, a role seemingly tailor-made for his formerly madcap humor. Character actor Vincent Gardenia plays Mr. Mushnik, and Bill Murray (an actor/comedian I’ve always found overrated) gives perhaps the best performance of his career in a hilarious supporting role. Levi Stubbs, the powerful lead singer of the Four Tops, provides the acerbic voice of Audrey II.

When “Little Shop” was released, my only real complaint was that, in typical Hollywood fashion, almost all the lead characters were played by well-known actors. Only Greene came from the Broadway musical, and her spot-on performance is dynamite. She plays Audrey just daffy enough to be non-threatening (either to the dentist or to Seymour) yet astute enough to realize Seymour is the far better match for her. And her singing is astonishing. Nothing against Moranis, but why not also use a Broadway original in the lead role?

Remember how some of those insipid Burt Reynolds comedies ended with a series of outtakes, showing the cast members having a great time on the set? That was neat, but when the audience is bored (or worse, embarrassed for the actors) that gimmick makes us long to have as much fun watching the picture as the cast and crew had making it. That’s not the case here. “Little Shop of Horrors” is a real treat to watch, and we genuinely see the actors having fun as well. For example, Martin’s early brash humor was difficult to pigeonhole into screenplays (see “Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid” or “The Man With Two Brains”). But “Little Shop” offered Martin a chance to show his talent within the context of a script not written specifically for him. And it’s obvious he has a blast with the material. So does Murray. And even the unseen Stubbs radiates a sparkle with a voice part, again, seemingly tailor-made for his talents, but was not written specifically for him.

It’s always a pleasure to revisit “Little Shop of Horrors.” It’s as enjoyable today as it was in 1986.

We all have films we really, really want to see, but many of them never make it from our Blu-ray shelves to the television, and simply remain on a list for years. As an aspiring film historian, I have read so much about, and seen so many signature scenes from, several important films that, honestly, I sometimes forget to actually watch them from beginning to end. And in other cases, there are pop-culture hits that I have yet to make a priority. So I have decided to use this column as motivation to check off many of the titles I’ve wanted to see for so long. These are my Cinema Blind Spots.

Robert Altman is an auteur with which you should be acquainted. If you consider yourself a film lover and have not seen “M*A*S*H” (1970), “McCabe & Mrs. Miller” (1971), “The Player” (1992), “Short Cuts” (1993) and, above all, my personal favorite “The Long Goodbye” (1973) — to name only but a few — clear your schedule, get some popcorn, and start marathoning!

Altman’s amazing one-man-show, “Secret Honor” (1984) with Philip Baker Hall as a ranting Richard Nixon, was my first Altman experience, strangely enough, and from there it just got better. Like many filmmakers from that New Hollywood era that have a prime and sometimes a resurgence decades later… this is Altman’s story.

His prime was undeniably in the 1970s where he churned out consistently good work, and solidified his trademark style of overlapping, conversational and often improvised dialogue, masterfully woven story arcs, and well-directed ensemble casts. Certainly one of Altman’s biggest, if not the biggest, is “Nashville” (1975), and it is one of the few films I had not seen from his filmography until preparing for this Blind Spot. June marked the 40th anniversary of the film, so I thought I’d give it a shot and see if one of my most beloved filmmakers could knock it out of the park yet again, or if it would follow down the path of “Popeye” (1980).

“Nashville” is generally adored as a concrete classic. Having a strong grip on its 93% Rotten Tomatoes score, it received abundant praise upon its release and even to this day. After seeing the film, Roger Ebert said, “Sure, it’s only a movie. But after I saw it I felt more alive, I felt I understood more about people, I felt somehow wiser. It’s that good a movie.” “Nashville” earned 4-star reviews from many notable critics, such as Gene Siskel, James Berardinelli and Leonard Maltin, as well as loads of praise from Andrew Sarris, Pauline Kael, Vincent Canby, Variety and many, many others.

The film is ranked #59 on AFI’s Top 100 American Films of All Time (10th anniversary edition), and Keith Carradine’s song “I’m Easy” is currently #81 on their 100 Greatest American Movie Music list, not to mention it won an Oscar and Golden Globe for Best Original Song. The Academy also nominated “Nashville” for Best Director, two Best Supporting Actress nods and Best Picture. Even the United States National Film Registry officially selected it for preservation, saying it’s “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant.” Do I need to go on? It’s a big deal.

“Nashville” is a brilliantly crafted series of events following the people involved in the country and gospel music business deep in the heart of Nashville, Tennessee. Altman follows twenty-four (yes, 24) characters as they intricately weave together, creating a nest for drama. Meanwhile, an extreme right-wing presidential candidate sends a consultant to Music City in order to put together a rally full of Nashville’s best musicians in order to win Tennessee in the primary.

There is a reality that Altman perfected during this decade, and you can feel it here. “Nashville” was shot on location in the title city, and most of the extras were real locals. Approximately one hour of the 159-minute running time is concert footage that was actually shot live during concerts the actors put on for these local audiences, performing the original songs they helped write for the movie. If that hour deters you, I’ll add that during each music sequence there are nuggets of development happening both in characters and story arcs. It’s masterfully executed.

The film is constantly furthering the narrative that we, the viewers, are constructing as we watch. It could easily be mistaken for a ruthlessly mundane slice of life; however I would argue the plot is simply buried under a surface-level reality, intentionally and smartly. During my screening, I was constantly piecing the film together, following each arc as it flawlessly progressed. There is a fluidity to Altman that is unique to him; all points meet their mark.

“Nashville” marked the second collaboration of Altman and writer Joan Tewkesbury; their first being “Thieves Like Us” (1974) — another Blind Spot for me, which will likely be remedied soon. The script as seen through the film is wonderful! It’s impressive not only for the work it must have taken to tie the arcs of an enormous cast like this together, but seamlessly constructing the deeply cynical political and social commentary that is rife throughout the picture is an undoubtedly daunting task. In addition to all of the above, the rich themes, character development and flow of the scenes are remarkable.

If there is one thing overall I can say about “Nashville,” it’s that it holds up without question. However, you would never see this film being made today. The studios would retch at the idea of a 159-minute country musical where there is little surface plot and all performance. It just wouldn’t happen like this. That allows Altman’s film to feel fresh 40 years later. It’s not flashy or spectacular, but simple, practical and plain like the “redneck” community (as Michael Murphy calls them) it exposes. It’s not about technical camera angles or plot twists, it’s about people, places and the stories they have to tell. All of this leads to a film that, I believe, if released today exactly as is, would find an audience of cinephiles hungry for more in contemporary cinema. And althought the film could easily be cut down to two hours, in my opinion, Altman’s style never gets boring. There is really nothing that ages the film when watched as a period piece. It’s just too good.

I have left a lot of the details intentionally vague in the hope that you will just experience “Nashville” yourself. There is too much to mention, and by discussing characters, motives and themes, it just might lessen the blow.

Too many films today insult my intelligence. They make me feel stupid, as if the studios see me as a peanut-brained halfwit. “Nashville,” however, restored my hope in cinema as many films have, reminding me that subtlety, complexity and intelligence exist in cinema and will hopefully return as a norm in the future. All I know for certain is when I’m feeling discouraged that the medium I love so dearly is going down the toilet, I’ll just try to remember that Altman exists. And if I’m down by the river, I can always drop in.

In celebration of ‘Merica’s independence, I will talk about “Top Gun” (1986). Feel free to get caught up and let us know your thoughts on “Nashville,” “Top Gun,” or movies you would like to see me check off the list in the comments below.

In the “Class of …” series, Nick Rogers takes a monthly look back at films celebrating either their 20th or 30th anniversary of initial release this year — six from 1995 and six from 1985. The rules: No Oscar nominees and no films among either year’s top-10 grossers.

Set aside craven calculations of nostalgia and name recognition, and consider that sometimes there are some reasonable criteria that make a remake acceptable. Can today’s technologies and tastes enhance the artistry and themes of a story? Does the modern-day ratings system’s permissiveness allow pushing the necessary boundaries to get it to a wider audience than it might have found initially? Could you immediately rattle off perfect contemporary casting for the film’s five biggest roles?

By those standards, a 21st-century reimagining of 1985’s “The Last Dragon” — a daffy hodgepodge of martial arts, musical and Blaxploitation — should have shown up by now. Kinetic film-fight choreography has only gotten more dizzyingly creative over the last 30 years, and “The Last Dragon” is a clear forefather to the no-big-deal urbanity that has made “The Fast & the Furious” a billion-dollar franchise; here, as in “F&F,” Chinese guys, black youth, Italians and other Europeans all grind it out in a commingled Chinatown-uptown neighborhood.

Then in its baby-step stumbles as a rating, the PG-13 slapped on the film felt perhaps too harsh. But the PG-13’s contemporary elasticity could give it a tougher touch it may need to transcend today. A Top 40-targeted soundtrack? Hand that off to your musical impresario of choice. And the casting? Easy. Michael B. Jordan as heroic martial-arts disciple Leroy, Gugu Mbatha-Raw as his musical lady-love Laura, Paul Giamatti as the villainous Arkadian and Jenny Slate as his dim-bulb, good-hearted moll, Angela. Ah, but what about the seemingly inimitable Sho’nuff, Shogun of Harlem and the meanest, prettiest, baddest mofo low down around this town? Could be the role of a lifetime for a bulked-up, bewigged Keegan-Michael Key.

A remake could bring more cohesion to a film with a genre identity crisis; it always feels a half step away from truly capitalizing on any of the three. But it also might not strike the funky, daffy sweet spot with which “The Last Dragon” takes an inner-city poke at the hero’s journey without ever taking the piss out of it — a surprisingly shrewd play that elevated a last gasp of Motown’s film shingle to cult status.

The silver screen seemed a natural expansion for Berry Gordy Jr.’s musical empire — one that came to define sounds, cities, people and generations and whose films came with prepackaged cross-promotional opportunities to sell more records.

Motown’s first film, 1972’s Billie Holliday biopic “Lady Sings the Blues,” gave the company a box-office hit, five Academy Award nominations and a No. 1 album of Diana Ross singing Holliday’s classics. Gordy himself directed 1975’s “Mahogany,” another Oscar-nominated, Ross-starring hit whose title theme (“Do You Know Where You’re Going To?”) became another Top-40 juggernaut.

But nobody paid attention to anything behind, or in front of, the curtain for 1978’s “The Wiz,” Motown’s adaptation of a Tony-winning R&B musical spin on “The Wizard of Oz.” Then the most expensive movie musical ever, “The Wiz’s” whiff crushed Ross’s acting career, lost today’s equivalent of $36 million for Universal and Motown, and sent Gordy’s film division off to lick its wounds. (A fine stage production in its own right, “The Wiz” will get its cultural reconsideration later this year when it becomes NBC’s next live-televised musical.)

Seven years later, little about the development of “The Last Dragon” would suggest Gordy and company thought they were going to rebound. Despite a career couched in acclaimed black-culture comedies like “Cooley High” and “Car Wash,” director Michael Schultz didn’t exactly excel the last time he made a quasi-musical: 1978’s other musical disaster, “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” Pressured to cut $2 million from the budget, Schultz and screenwriter Louis Venosta constantly rewrote. The lead role went to Taimak, a 19-year-old black belt of African-American and Italian descent who was reportedly learning to act while on set, and its release date pitted it against franchise sequels to “Porky’s” and “Friday the 13th.”

Hardly the recipe for what, at $25 million, became Motown’s highest-grossing film ever. And even if you’ve forgotten “The Last Dragon,” or never knew it, you likely remember “Rhythm of the Night,” DeBarge’s exuberant, calypso-flavored ’80s pop anthem featured in it. There surely must have been a symbiotic relationship of success between song and screen, even if the number is a footnote in the film; its most prominent use finds Schultz seemingly training his camera on playback of a video made by someone else.

And at 108 minutes, “The Last Dragon” tests how long a film can reasonably exist when its primary plot points are fight, kiss and dance. Leroy (Taimak) is a young black man who has sheltered himself from the streets and dedicated his life to the martial art of Goju and achieving the Glow. It’s a physical manifestation of light that, in the right hands, represents beautiful Zen harmony and, in the wrong ones, is a havoc-wreaking weapon.

However, Leroy’s sensei (Thomas Ikeda) has taught him all he knows and still no Glow. Armed with a medallion that belonged to Bruce Lee and pointed toward a new master in Harlem, Leroy sets out to become “the last dragon” and get his Glow on. It’s not long before he’s sidetracked by the confusion, vengeance, fear and love his sensei predicts.

Leroy goes head over heels for the lovely Laura (singer-actress-Prince protégé Vanity), taste-making celebrity host of a popular music-video show. And he winds up protecting her from Eddie Arkadian (Chris Murney), an impish, megalomaniacal video-arcade magnate who feels like a “Dick Tracy” henchman that’s been given pro tempore power and doesn’t really know how to wield it.

Arkadian wants Laura to showcase the nigh-unlistenable Cyndi Lauper knockoffs sung by his dame Angela (Faith Prince, later a Tony-winning Broadway star). If Laura endorses them, Arkadian reasons, they both get famous. Murney, who became the commercial voice of Chester Cheetah, brings a welcome, teeth-gnashing Edward G. Robinson abrasiveness to the film, and scaling his Bond villain lair down to sitcom soundstage size is both a visible budget shortfall and one of the movie’s best jokes. When Laura rightly rejects Arkadian’s offer and he sends his thugs (including a blink-and-miss-him Chazz Palminteri) after her, Leroy fends them off.

Taimak is Michael Jackson had the singer bulked up and decided to grab throats with ferocity instead of his own crotch. The actor’s earnest, eager, voice-breaking tenor is exactly the same … and so is his “woo!”-ing, bouncing confidence when in his martial arts element. It’s the gangly, nerdy Peter Parker-esque performance it needs to be. Leroy has been taught to use his head before he fights, and you believe his anxiety over losing his discipline in destruction. And whether the timing of Leroy’s contraction-free declarative speech patterns is skill or accident is anyone’s guess. (“They did not harm me,” he deadpans when asked if he’s OK after a battle.)

“The Last Dragon” ultimately hinges on Leroy’s believability as a martial artist, which Taimak makes an unequivocal success. That arrow he karate chops in midair at the start is a no-tricks stunt, and he brings a dancer’s grace to the astute, if disappointingly sparse, martial arts choreography from Ron Van Clief, Ernie Reyes Sr. and Torrance Mathis; prior to the third act, there’s a disappointingly small amount of fight sequences. (And if you recognize the Reyes name from somewhere, “The Last Dragon” is the out-of-nowhere debut of his son, Ernie Jr. Before he starred in “Surf Ninjas” or “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” Ernie Jr. memorably helped Taimak tear up some hapless lackeys as a pint-sized whirligig of whoop-ass.)

Plus, Taimak unleashes convincingly brawny, street-brawl haymakers in his climactic knuckle-buster with Sho’nuff, the self-styled Shogun of Harlem and Arkadian’s chief head-knocker. It’s not an overstatement to say that few pop-culture villains of the 1980s approximate the awesomeness of Sho’nuff as embodied by the late, great Julius J. Carry III. See, even the actor’s real name is badass! Like Anthony Hopkins in “The Silence of the Lambs,” Carry towers over this movie (and Taimak by a head-and-a-half) despite being in it for maybe 10 minutes.

Sho’nuff feels like a guy who rented the neighborhood’s only copy of “The Road Warrior” never to return it, squirreling it away as a study guide and copying its villains for their apocalyptic, hand-hewn style and snarling, sinister intent. (Again, a low budget works in the movie’s favor, as Sho’nuff’s “armor” is clearly some sort of football padding.) His bloodlust, however, is unrestrained. With the large, looming presence of a Terracotta Warrior, Sho’nuff trashes Leroy’s parents’ pizza place, tosses around Leroy’s younger brother, Richie, barks that Leroy is a “limp wimp” and vows to make him “kiss the Converse” when someone intimates that he might actually be stronger. Sho’nuff is as eminently quotable as he is frighteningly overpowering, and worst of all, he seems to have the Glow that has evaded Leroy.

While Carry gloriously revels in a Vincent Price-like villainy, Sho’nuff’s wanton destruction reveals a surprising sociological nuance to “The Last Dragon.” Cartoonish as he is, Sho’nuff is the personification of unchecked urban blight. His is a relentless violence Leroy strives to avoid, but must begrudgingly come to understand — not only to triumph over him in a fight, but to discover the Glow. See, Leroy can possess all the dojo discipline he wants, but it’s not until he stands up for the safety of the streets he grew up on (and, through martial arts, sought to flee) that he truly lights up. Leroy’s embrace of cultural connection and identity? That’s the Glow, and that’s why it fizzles and fades on Sho’nuff just when he needs it most.

For a movie that seems content to be colorful and congenial, this may seem an unexpectedly thoughtful reconciliation of the ethnic mishmash at the movie’s core. But in retrospect, you realize it’s been strolling in that direction all along — the ethnic inversion of the trash-talking guys who hang out on the corner, Leroy’s dad not giving a damn about being a black man selling pizza, the sharp-zing revelation of the “wisdom” behind the mythical Sum Dum Goy.

While a remake of “The Last Dragon” may shine a brighter light on such things, there’s something to be said for the original’s appealing aesthetics of the medium-wattage illumination from within.

Disney’s big-screen adaptation of the Broadway musical “Into the Woods” has plenty of charm and charisma to cover the tiredness of the film’s premise.

The story begins when a witch arrives, quite explosively, at the front door of a baker and his wife with an ultimatum: They must collect five different magical trinkets before the end of three days, or they will never have a child. The Baker and his wife then set into the woods on a quest that entwines their fates with those of Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, Rapunzel and Jack (and the beanstalk).

Disney has done a wonderful job of bringing the Broadway musical to the big screen without being cheesy or over-dramatic. In all actuality, the musical is quite entertaining. Although the original stage version of “Into the Woods” preceded some of the films and TV series to ape this trend, the whole “fairy tale characters coexisting in a single story” idea is pretty played out, and the musical is a bit uneven in the end. But it’s the overall picture that’s important.

While a lot of famous characters weave in and out of the film, it’s the story of the Baker and the Baker’s Wife. They’re the lightning rod for the rest of the characters, and they way that everyone meets is quite whimsical and fun. I think my favorite instance has to be the Baker and Little Red Riding Hood; the punchline of the scene is, of course, another played-out moment — a recurring theme — but I still couldn’t help but giggle.

The unevenness of the film is its biggest flaw — an almost perfect balance of whimsy and comedy at the beginning, with characters who are just different enough and a quest that’s just plain fun. But the third act takes an odd, jarring shift in tone that feels out of place and causes interest in the film to wane.

Luckily, the film has a stellar cast that’s strong enough to act as the glue of the story. James Corden and Emily Blunt are absolutely brilliant as the Baker and the Baker’s Wife, especially Corden, who exudes the perfect combination of aloofness and bravery to make moviegoers fall in love with him. Meryl Streep is wonderful as the witch, and Anna Kendrick is the perfect Cinderella.

If you’re a fan of the classic Disney films or the Broadway musical, you’ll fall in love with “Into the Woods,” flaws and all. It’s the perfect film to own on Blu-ray, especially with the bevy of special features available. There’s a never-before-seen original song, a pair of featurettes (“The Cast as Good as Gold” and “Deeper ‘Into the Woods’ “) and filmmaker commentary. Be sure to add this gem to your movie collection.

So goes a lyric in “Opportunity,” one of several new songs that sneaks its way in among the standards in this latest film adaptation of the stage musical “Annie.”

It’s a cute moment for the big-hearted, big-hearted orphan taken in by a standoffish single moneybags with mayoral aspirations first for press, then for paternal instinct. But when Quvenzhané Wallis — the Oscar-nominated firecracker from 2012’s “Beasts of the Southern Wild” — utters those words, it’s impossible to not hear the soaring context of confidence from a child actress undeniably aware of her talent.

Wallis’s take on Annie is inimitable. She’s irrepressibly optimistic and fiercely independent, but not invulnerable. You believe she’s a little kid who looks out at a big world and fears it can’t possibly meet her enthusiasm halfway. That she takes a certain pleasure, and feels a certain sadness, in being alone. That she’s right in defiantly making people earn her trust but generous with love for those who do. With such conviction and presence, we are, indeed, witnessing Wallis’s moment.

Those moments are pretty much all that’s worth witnessing in this version of “Annie,” which updates the Great Depression setting of the classic story to a present-day musical vision that’s … well, just kind of depressing.

Because Wallis and Jamie Foxx (as Will Stacks, Annie’s guardian and today’s version of Oliver Warbucks) are African-American — as are celebrity producers Will Smith, Jada Pinkett Smith and Shawn “Jay-Z” Carter — the film has pitched itself as a radical reworking of an old-school musical into a more contemporary, edgier R&B opus. Unfortunately, most of its new arrangements are musical aspartame — chemically precise, calorie-free and with a thin, tinny aftertaste. Like OneRepublic.

“I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here” bounces as it should. Idiosyncratic Australian pop star Sia puts an effervescent spin on “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile.” And the aforementioned “Opportunity” has a stripped-down sweetness. But the rest alternates between pop Muzak and risible misfires.

Foxx’s long-delayed solo number resembles a quiet-storm bedroom croon even though it’s a can-do song about making dreams happen. Woefully miscast as the boozy orphanage matron Miss Hannigan, Cameron Diaz unintentionally mimics Flight of the Conchords’ purposefully flat monotone during “Little Girls,” the beat of which has been reimagined here as the worst fun. song you’ve ever heard. The less said of a third-act attempt to humanize Hannigan, the better. And when Patricia Clarkson cameos, you’ll think: Now there’s a modern-era harridan for Hannigan.

This isn’t a purist slapdown that rejects, on principle, trying something new with classic material; next week’s “Into the Woods” omits crucial portions of the original production but more or less succeeds as a spiritual successor. This “Annie” reduces most of the showstoppers to background music. (Bonus points for not overselling “Tomorrow,” though.) The only song that boasts charmingly rough edges is “It’s the Hard Knock Life,” and that’s just because it simply co-opts Jay-Z’s bumping-beat version from 16 (!) years ago. It makes sense that Stacks is a rampant germophobe; this movie’s afraid of getting grit on its hands, too.

The antiseptic touch extends to co-writer director Will Gluck, from whose résumé (“Easy A” and “Friends with Benefits”) nothing suggests the skill for a musical. In lieu of scope and spectacle, Gluck provides all the visual oomph of an ABC Family promo. The production numbers are cut-cut-cut-cut-cut in ways suggesting Gluck doesn’t trust his choreographer (Zachary Woodlee, who brought a bubbly bounce to 2007’s “Hairspray”), his cast (including stage-veteran actors like Bobby Cannavale, who successfully acquits himself with poise) or, most damning of all, his own abilities.

Gluck’s New York location filming feels as stifled and stiff as the script, which is far too infatuated with its social-media saturation and which takes the occasional, strangely mean-spirited jab at the homeless (“They prefer to be called bums, not hobos”). Gluck and co-writer Aline Brosh McKenna’s best gag — a bone thrown to contemporary moviegoers — is “Moonquake Lake,” a fictitious film whose premiere Annie attends and which is fraught with clever cameos and directorial credits.

And yet “Annie” isn’t an utter disaster. How could it be given Wallis’s unfettered joy and the easy rapport she shares with the equally charismatic Foxx and the irresistible Rose Byrne, who plays Stacks’ personal assistant, Grace? While the rest of the film strains mightily to manufacture whimsy, their jubilance comes naturally.

“Never slow your roll,” Stacks tells Annie. Here’s hoping Wallis heeds that advice in the future. In “Annie,” she’s the only reason you get treated instead of tricked.

When it comes down to facts, “Saving Mr. Banks” might be nothing more than candy-colored hooey. It depicts the battle between author P.L. Travers and entertainment entrepreneur Walt Disney as they clashed on how to best adapt “Mary Poppins,” her beloved children’s novel, for the big screen.

Did Travers really toss a script onto the studio lawn in disgust? Did her icy demeanor briefly thaw as the Sherman brothers first sang “Let’s Go Fly a Kite”? Was the deal sealed only after Disney caught an impromptu red-eye flight to Britain?

Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. No need for suspense here. Spoiler alert: They made a “Mary Poppins” movie. Perhaps you’ve seen it. Instead, “Banks” delves into more introspective, and interesting, details of how the film was finished, namely how Travers and Disney navigated a particularly thorny bramble of collaboration. Even if that’s also speculative, it’s where “Banks” finds all the authenticity it needs to work — depicting tumultuous emotions that inspire, and torture, creative types.

What hopeful lies are spun in fiction to dull the pain of real life? Can an author give a cipher salvation that eluded the person who inspired him? And can any creator ever really escape long shadows cast by a work intended as a monument to a loved one?

“Banks” could’ve been two obnoxiously twee hours of a studio patting itself on the back to celebrate smooth-talking commerce’s triumph over spiky-tongued art. And it’s still very much a lighthearted, vibrant film that will work for the large audience at whom it’s aimed.

But it lets these thoughtful, complex questions about creativity propel its portrayal of the larger-than-life icons at its core, with help from Kelly Marcel and Sue Smith’s charming, perceptive script, sensitive direction by John Lee Hancock (thankfully working less in the schmaltzy milieu of “The Blind Side” and more in that of his masterful “The Rookie”) and some finely calibrated performances by Emma Thompson as Travers and Tom Hanks as Disney.

The film’s major flaw is that its many strengths arrive much too late to save the first act.

For two decades, Travers has resisted Disney’s entreaties to turn over the film rights to her bestseller about the nice flying nanny. His persistence, he says, comes from a promise to his children, long since grown up.

But by 1961, Travers has reached her financial limitations. In need of money if she’s to keep her house, she flies to Hollywood to take meetings with Disney and his creative team: screenwriter Don DaGradi (Bradley Whitford) and Richard & Robert Sherman (Jason Schwartzman and B.J. Novak), a sibling pair of composers/lyricists. At the airport, she’s picked up by Ralph (Paul Giamatti), a chatty chauffeur who embraces a challenge to pry loose her stiff upper lip for meaningful conversation.

Each of these actors is a delight in juicy character roles, but none more so than Giamatti. In one of the movie’s greatest scenes, he reveals that his daily observation of the weather is not just idle chitchat but a way to rectify a fear in his life — much as, we learn, Travers did with her novel.

As for Travers, Thompson initially plays her as an unrelenting shrew so oblivious to even the most cursory social graces that she seems as fictitious as Mary Poppins herself. Only at the absolute make-or-break point of losing the audience, and the movie, does Thompson expand this shrill, sole dimension to believably flesh out the motives behind Travers’ feisty self-reliance. It helps that we realize the big dream she’s packed within this thin book.

Before she’ll turn over any rights, Travers demands script approval. To Disney, DaGradi and the Shermans, her demands seem endlessly frustrating and finicky — forbidding animation, dictating production design, badmouthing the tongue-twisting “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” (Hearing the Shermans’ timeless songs in workshop status is among the film’s many inside-baseball pleasures.)

But none knows of her deep-seated obligation to protect the essence of “Mary Poppins” or her unspoken resentment of Disney — both rooted in her childhood.

In flashbacks, we see Travers as a young girl — on an itinerant trek across Australia with a father (Colin Farrell) adept at inspiring creativity in his daughters but incapable of keeping a job or his sobriety. As a man with senses dulled by woven fantasy and swallowed whiskey, Farrell finely balances whimsy and depression.

Subtle is the suggestion that Travers sees in Disney a man who forged an empire on the very fancifulness that doomed her family to economic and emotional hardship. Perhaps it’s why she takes such pride in being an immovable object to his irresistible force. Thompson and Hanks bring lively, old-pro zest and zeal to every clash — circling each other like conversational predators, each one waiting for the other’s guard to drop.

What Hanks lacks in a physical resemblance to Disney, he makes up for with full inhabitance of the mogul’s childlike wonderment, locked-in conversational concentration and guarded optimism. He’s a gregarious man, yes, but he also takes silent-but-visible offense to Travers’ characterization of Mickey Mouse as a “cartoon.” Is Mickey not to him as Mary is to her? The script suggests the hint of a storm in Disney’s artistic soul, too.

But it also remembers that, at the end of the day, Disney was a savvy businessman — particularly in a climactic monologue that’s an elegant mission statement, an unmannered confession and a well-worn sales pitch rolled into one. Honest as Disney is here, he’s trying to protect his investment. And given the film’s shrewd consideration of the public personae Travers and Disney so carefully calculated, a postscript at the film’s premiere isn’t so easily read as a feel-good reconciliation of their respective goals.

Ultimately, “Banks” is every bit the charming confection you expect it might be, but it’s also uncommonly and unexpectedly thoughtful about the troubles of the creative mind and the travails of the creative process. Consider them the spoonfuls of salt that make this medicine go down.

]]>http://www.thefilmyap.com/movies/saving-mr-banks/feed/043223Rock of Ageshttp://www.thefilmyap.com/movies/rock-of-ages-2/
Thu, 11 Oct 2012 02:09:06 +0000http://www.thefilmyap.com/?p=35836“Rock of Ages” is a musical devoted to hits of the 1980’s. It’s about a small town girl moving to the big city with big dreams and a small bank account. Can you guess the closing number? The film is written around covers of famous 80’s hits, although those songs rarely teach us anything about the characters. Rather, the music exists for the sake of existing, while the dialog moves us from song to song. Neither mean anything. The film is as hollow and indulgent an entry into the nostalgia market as has ever existed.

I can think of only two reasons to see “Rock of Ages.”

The first is to enjoy music you loved in youth; to perhaps recapture the feelings of a bygone age. Music, in particular, carries strong emotional context. Every moment in the film is either a Billboard Hit or a contrived segue to another Billboard Hit. But be forewarned. The songs in this film are all middling covers and remixes. Some songs are spliced together just to give important actors screen time. Weird mixing ruins the flow of the songs, which in turn breaks the pleasant nostalgia required for any connection between the audience and this film. The soundtrack features twenty songs. Most of the original recordings are available on iTunes for $1 or on Youtube for free. Just listen to them there. Nothing in the film captures their emotion or significance. In fact, the film makes its music boring, inconsequential.

On a related note, the film is edited terribly. The actors are obviously lip-syncing and dancing to a pre-recorded soundtrack. There is no immersion to be found. The film’s weakness is surprising, given director Adam Shankman’s choreography background.

Another reason to see the film would be to satisfy the curiosity of seeing popular performers prance about outside of their comfort zone. While “Rock of Ages” mostly fails, there are a few notable performances. Russell Brand and Alec Baldwin’s characters share an unspoken mutual lust for most of the film, and their musical confession is a highlight. Tom Cruise as Stacey Jaxx is a sight to behold. He nails all his musical numbers. Unfortunately, Jaxx is demoted from “rock god” to boring clod midway through the film, ruining the weird demigod aspects of his character.

Cathrine Zeta Jones, Malin Ackerman, Julianne Hough, and Diego Boneta round out the primary cast. With the exception of Jones, the cast is quite adequate at singing and dancing, but don’t really bring anything special to a set of very bland characters. Jones’ character serves as the antagonist, but her role is rather minor and her conclusion undeserved.

I didn’t watch any of the special features on the disc. The movie wore me out. Most notably, my Blu-Ray included an extended edition. I considered it, but decided I’m not gonna take it.

These days, geekery rules. A hit (albeit inconsistent) sitcom celebrates outsider teens covering pop songs. At at the fictional Barden University, male a cappella singers are gods – well, if you don’t count the jocks and frat boys. “Pitch Perfect” both embraces singer stereotypes and reverts them with snappy quips, with fun performances and plenty of sweet notes along the way.

Beca (Anna Kendrick) is a hip city girl (in case her eyeliner and visible tattoos didn’t tip you off) whose dreams of being a DJ are diverted by her Barden professor dad, who insists she take advantage of the free tuition. After a chance encounter (in the shower) Beca ends up joining the Bellas, a female a cappella group whose earnest leaders (Brittany Snow and Anna Camp) dream of winning the international championships. The only issues? The Treblemakers, the rival all-male a cappella group with a snarky frontman (Adam Devine) and a repertoire that’s more, uh, current than that of the Bellas, who favor Ace of Base.

Like “Bring It On”, 1999’s exuberant take on cheerleading, “Pitch Perfect” strikes a near-perfect balance of parody and flat-out adoration. Kay Cannon’s screenplay serves up laugh-out-loud clips and even a little gross humor, but with a self-aware twist (in other words, the polar opposite of “Glee”). The able cast runs with it: Kendrick, a Broadway actress since childhood, is subtle smirks mixed with soulful vocals. Skylar Astin (“Hamlet 2”, Broadway’s “Spring Awakening”) has some nice moments as Beca’s cinephile love interest, and Ben Platt gives good geek as Astin’s roommate, an amateur magician and a cappella groupie. John Michael Higgins and co-producer Elizabeth Banks shine in cameos as competition emcees (a cappella competitions have emcees? Sure they do, and here it works).

The two strongest performances, however, are Snow and Rebel Wilson. Whether she’s enthusing about her “lady time” soundtrack or tearfully overcoming a minor ailment, Snow’s bubbly optimism and total commitment are forever entertaining to watch. And as the self-proclaimed “Fat” Amy, Wilson mixes broad gestures and snarky asides and manages to visibly crack up her costars. Add in corny-yet-funky cover songs and “Pitch Perfect” is cinematic proof that lighthearted doesn’t mean stupid, and female-dominated material doesn’t have to center around fighting over men. No diggity, no doubt.

]]>http://www.thefilmyap.com/movies/pitch-perfect/feed/235534The Burton Binge: “Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street”http://www.thefilmyap.com/movies/the-burton-binge-sweeney-todd-the-demon-barber-of-fleet-street/
Wed, 19 Sep 2012 03:39:13 +0000http://www.thefilmyap.com/?p=35263Each Sunday with “The Burton Binge,” Sam Watermeier will look back at one of Tim Burton’s films, ultimately tracing the return to the auteur’s roots with the October 5 release of “Frankenweenie,” an animated adaptation of Burton’s first live-action short film.

Sweeney Todd is a Tim Burton character if there ever was one.

With a lightning-white streak of hair and an equally pale face, he is a whimsical projection of pain. Bearing sorrow and cold, sharp hands, he is like Batman mixed with Edward Scissorhands.

Although stylistically and thematically similar to Burton’s other films, it revolves around a much different character arc.

After he’s wrongly imprisoned and stripped of his family, the gentle barber wreaks havoc on the streets of London, slitting men’s throats and selling their bodies to an equally tattered meat-pie maker (Helena Bonham Carter).

In Depp’s hands, Sweeney is as scary as he is tragic — like a classic Universal monster. His singing is also darkly beautiful, more guttural than rehearsed.

Needless to say, Sweeney is not a gentle soul like Pee-wee Herman, Edward Scissorhands or Ed Wood. Nor is the film a playfully dark fantasy. It’s easily Burton’s grimmest work.

While his other films have a crude, childlike aesthetic, this one has a sweeping visual gravitas. Each frame has a rich, velvety texture — undoubtedly composed by Burton to show his love for the 1979 stage musical, which he saw several times as a Cal Arts student in London in 1980 (“Tim Burton’s Slasher Movie”).

One of Burton’s more organic worlds of the last few years, you can practically feel the soot of the London setting. However, the film is not merely a visual feast. It’s a grand tragedy of chamber-drama intimacy. As loud and lavish as this movie could have been, Burton boldly chooses to put stronger emphasis on the quiet moments. The most powerful scenes are those of Sweeney alone, dully lit by the stormy sky outside his rooftop barber shop, waiting for revenge with both rage and sorrow.

Unfortunately, Sweeney doesn’t have much chemistry with anything other than violence and his scarred past. Therefore, his emotionally detached exchanges with the other characters become a bit taxing and tiresome. The same statement applies to the film overall. It is so concerned with physical and emotional anguish that it forgets to have fun when it has the chance. For instance, it seems strange how nonchalantly the film handles the absurdist subplot involving human meat pies. Then again, I’m not familiar with the tone and execution of the original musical.

Overall, this is one of Burton’s better films of the last decade — and certainly one of his more exciting collaborations with Depp. (Who knew the man could sing?) In the end, though, the film doesn’t have the staying power of “Ed Wood” or “Edward Scissorhands.” It’s an impressive achievement but not an entirely involving one. Fortunately, style doesn’t completely triumph over substance here, but it comes as dangerously close as a shave from Mr. Todd.

Stay tuned this week, as I will tumble down the rabbit hole with Burton and “Alice in Wonderland.”